The trouble with living in London is that apoplexy is always just around the corner. A few weeks ago my telephone developed a funny sub-aqueous rustling noise sufficient to drown all conversations, so after a few stiff cups of tea, and setting aside several hours for the task, I phoned BT to have it fixed. The next day a nice man appeared with a name a bit like a Sudanese teddy bear, and within a mere hour had found and fixed the problem — a corroded wire outside the house. He departed smiling into the sunset, having refused a £10 tip. The next day we realised that in fixing the problem he had cut off all extensions within the house: the bedroom, the kitchen, the office, all except the sitting room.
The next day I was back on hold with BT, waiting half an hour (they hope you’ll hang up) to speak to a ‘Customer Service Executive’.
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